


Battle Wounds

by papermoon2719



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Emotional Sex, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papermoon2719/pseuds/papermoon2719
Summary: Steve is in DC for a conference and Bucky returns from a solo mission in a bad place.





	Battle Wounds

You can always tell when Bucky has a hard time on a mission. Steve, being the talker he is, will usually tell you what happened if the mission went wrong. He’ll open up to you, explaining his doubts, his mistakes, his regrets. He’s never been one to keep from telling you exactly how he feels, good or bad.

With Bucky, though, it’s the complete opposite. Getting him to open up to you after a difficult mission is like pulling teeth. Usually you know it’s bad when he comes home tense, hard enough to pound nails. He’s always more rough when something went wrong in the field, his kisses biting, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise. He never breaks your skin, but you’re always a little bit more sore the morning after, more fingertip-shaped bruises littering your body than normal. But you let him take you like that anyways, knowing that he needs to. Knowing that if you don’t, if he keeps everything bottled up, he just may explode someday.

And you have no idea how you would be able to live with that.

* * *

You’re sitting at the table writing your monthly client reports when Bucky gets home. Steve has been in DC at a United Nations conference for three days, and is slated to be there at least another four. Bucky left the day before him on a solo mission, a rare occurrence. You hadn’t even had time to have your traditional farewell sex, settling instead for a deep goodbye kiss pressed between your boys. Steve did his best to make up for Bucky’s absence that night in bed, but it didn’t quite meet the mark. You knew it wasn’t his fault; you’d just grown to crave the feeling of both of them in and around you.

You can tell immediately that something had gone wrong. Bucky doesn’t greet you like he normally does after a mission, with a soft smile and a kiss to the forehead. Instead he heads straight for the bedroom, not even sparing a glance your way as he crosses the apartment. You follow his back critically, seeing the tension in his shoulders even in the almost-dark of the apartment. You hear him banging around before you hear the shower turn on.

Deciding against what most would do when confronted with a clearly upset Super Soldier, you stand, leaving your papers strewn across the small table in your eat-in kitchen. You pad across the living room quickly, your sock-clad feet hardly making any noise as they cross the threshold of your room.

You spot Bucky’s go-bag next to the bed where he dropped it. You try to ignore the shirt covered in dried blood hanging out of it.

“Bucky?” you call softly, turning towards the bathroom. The door is cracked and you can hear the water running, but you can tell from the sound of it hitting the floor of the tub that he’s not in it. Sure enough, when you push the door open enough for you to see in, Bucky’s standing in front of the vanity, glaring at his reflection in the mirror.

“Babe?”

You see Bucky’s eyes flash to yours for a fraction of a second before he looks back into the mirror. He relaxes a bit, though, so you feel your own chest loosen. You approach him slowly and put a hand on his back, heart sinking when you feel how tightly wound his muscles are.

You take a minute to look at his face, trying not to grimace when you see the fresh cuts and bruises. There’s a particularly nasty one across the bridge of his nose that’s old enough that it’s crusted over. You think his nose is broken because is eyes are darkened in the inner corners.

“Bad?” you ask softly, coming around to his side. You look him in the face properly as you do, your hand sliding around to his metal bicep. He gives the tiniest of nods and his entire frame seems to sag. You try to ignore the tears burning at your eyes, busying yourself with filling the tub against the opposite wall.

When you get the temperature just right you turn back to Bucky and reach for the hem of his shirt. He’s completely pliant when you pull it off of him, hissing slightly when he raises his arms to tug it over them. You grimace when you see the deep purple bruises along his ribs, more cuts littering his abdomen. Your only consolation is that he’ll be mostly healed by this time tomorrow, so he won’t be in pain too long.

You expect it when he doesn’t respond to your touch as you undo his pants, leaving them loose around his hips as you kneel to undo the laces of his boots. He lifts his feet enough for you to me able to pull them off, tossing them and his socks back towards the bedroom. You stand again, tugging down his pants and boxers, hissing yourself when you see the bruises extend down across his hip and the top of his thigh.

He steps out of his pants, letting you guide him to the tub. He makes the first sound since he came home, a loud, pained groan as he sinks into the hot water. It almost makes you cry, but you keep it together. You turn off the water and reach up to the shelf by the tub to grab a washrag, dipping it in the water and starting to methodically wash Bucky’s body.

He leans his lead back against the wall, his eyes closing as you start at his shoulders, dipping the washrag in the water, wringing it out over his skin, wiping away the dried blood with your hands instead of the rough fabric of the rag. You’re even more careful when you get to the bruises, using just the hot water to cleanse his skin.

He doesn’t respond as your hands move between his legs, his eyebrows barely twitching when your hand brushes his soft length. You don’t linger for longer than you have to, knowing that he’s too tired for anything right now.

By the time you get to his feet the water’s a pinkish-brown, blood and dirt darkening it. You tell him you’re going to drain the tub and refill it, his hand squeezing yours the only indication that he can hear you. You do so, refilling the tub with slightly cooler water.

You reach for the soap this time, grabbing the bar of Ivory that Bucky prefers. You can’t help but smile, your eyes flitting to Steve’s bottle of Old Spice up on the corner shelf with yours. The first time you went shopping with the two of them you found them in the bathroom aisle, bickering at each other about their soap choices. When they caught you giggling down at the endcap you’d said it was like watching Grumpy Old Men in real life. They’d both glared at you.

You slide the soap across the expanse of his skin, this time going over every inch of it: under his arms, in the crooks of his elbows and knees. His toes curl when you run the bar over the bottoms of his feet, but he doesn’t laugh. In times like this, it feels like he never will again.

You ignore the feeling gnawing at your gut while you reach for the shampoo. You get Bucky to sit up and hold onto his neck as you use the cup kept by the tub for these exact situations to pour water over his head. His breath deepens as you massage his scalp, working up a good lather before you rinse it out. You repeat with the conditioner, detangling the strands by hand. You discover what you think may be a fragment of a tooth in his hair, but you discard it without question. You honestly don’t want to know.

When he’s finally clean, you help pull Bucky to his feet, letting him stand in the tub as the water (which is a clean, milky white instead of bloody pink this time) drains around his feet. You grab the towel Steve’s been using and gently pat Bucky dry. You tell him to sit on the edge of the tub as you wet another washrag and grab the First Aid kit you keep under the sink.

He doesn’t move as you nudge between his naked thighs, putting a hand under his chin and gently tilting his face up to run the washrag over it. You’re careful of his nose, not getting all of the crusted blood off of it, but you don’t want to hurt him any more than you have to.

You expertly dress his wounds, using butterfly bandages and gauze where needed, but mostly just spreading Neosporin on the nicks and cuts. Steve told you once that it’s pretty much pointless with their immune systems being so advanced, but you don’t care. You’d rather be on the safe side.

You let Bucky know you’re finished with a chaste but lingering kiss to his mouth. He opens his eyes, looking into yours as he reaches up with one hand to gently squeeze your hip. You know it’s his way of saying thank you. You smile sadly at him, kissing him once more before turning to drop the tube of ointment back into the box by the sink.

“C’mon,” you say softly, taking Bucky’s hand and leading him into the dark bedroom. You tug down the sheets, guiding Bucky between them before tucking them in around him. You press a kiss to his forehead, brushing his damp hair off of it.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” you whisper. Bucky nods, bringing your palm up to his mouth to press a kiss to it before his eyes drift shut.

You make quick work of getting ready for bed. You clean up the bathroom, tossing Bucky’s torn shirt into the trashcan. You throw his jeans in the washing machine, along with the bloodstained towels. You straighten up the papers on the table. Finally, you turn off all of the lights and head back into the bedroom. You can see Bucky’s form in the soft glow coming from the window, rolled onto his side and breathing deeply.

You brush your teeth and wash your face, tugging off your own sweatpants and tossing them in the hamper before grabbing the bottle of Tylenol-2 you keep for times like this. You fill the glass you use for brushing your teeth and leave that and the bottle on the table by Bucky’s side of the bed.

Bucky doesn’t stir as you climb in next to him, and you roll to face him. You smile when you see he’s got the plushie Steve got you over a year ago held tightly to his chest. You slide a little bit closer to him, just enough that you can feel his body heat, before you close your eyes and finally let yourself drift off in the knowledge that Bucky’s home, he’s safe, and he’s loved.

* * *

You wake up slowly the next morning. You aren’t quite sure what wakes you until your eyes flutter open. You’re met by Bucky’s blue ones.

“Hi,” he whispers, his fingers brushing through your tangled hair. He smiles softly at you and you feel relief wash over you. “Thank you,” he murmurs. You sigh softly against his mouth when he presses his lips to yours in a soft kiss.

“’s why I’m here,” you answer softly, your fingertips trailing up his chest. You notice that most of the scrapes from last night are already pretty much healed.

You look back up at him, teetering between asking and not asking. He makes the decision for you, though, his hand dropping to you hip as he starts talking softly.

“There were more agents than they thought,” he begins. You watch him carefully, noticing how his brows come together as he watches where his fingers are playing with the oversized shirt you’re wearing.

“They thought there were only two, and that’s who I was watching when I was ambushed. There were so many of them.”

His voice trails off, fingers twisting harder in the fabric. You don’t say a word, don’t move. Hell, you’re hardly breathing. You know if you speak, if you show any hesitation he’ll shut down. So you just let him take his time, patiently watching. Finally he starts again.

“They blew the gas main. I didn’t know how many civilians were killed. I just… I snapped. I ripped them apart, like they were made of paper. I… They didn’t tell me how many I killed.”

You can’t help the tears that escape your eyes, soaking the pillow under your cheek. He’s crying, too, something you see very rarely.

“I did it for you,” he whispers, brows coming together and nose wrinkling in disgust… Disgust with himself, disgust with HYDRA. Probably disgust with SHEILD.

“You and Stevie. I couldn’t get your faces outta my mind. I just kept thinking…. What if I don’t come back?”

He lets out a strangled sob as you pull him to you, feeling his fist tightening around the fabric on your back as he buries his face in your chest. You can feel his tears soaking through the front of the shirt, your own falling into his hair. You just hold him, feeling him shake against you.

Eventually he quiets, his breath still heavier than normal but nowhere near the wounded, frantic pace it was a minute ago. You feel him mouthing at your chest, rough kisses pressed against the skin exposed just above the collar. He rolls you both, a hulking mass of man and machine, crowding your space as his mouth moves up your neck.

The kiss to your lips is a biting, bruising one, more teeth and tongue. You moan as he shoves his hand down into your panties, fingers working along your slit, spreading the moisture that’s forming quickly. You cry out into his mouth when he slips three fingers into you at once, the burning stretch delicious as he sets a brutal pace, fucking you with his fingers.

You know you aren’t ready when he pulls out of you, but you don’t care. His hand rucks up your shirt, spreading your slick along your side as he lifts you. You go willingly, sitting up between his spread thighs so he can pull the shirt over your head. His hand goes to your throat, pushing you back down as he assaults you with another biting kiss.

His hand goes back between your legs, ripping your underwear off. You’re not even mad, biting back at his bottom lip hard enough to make him bleed. You moan at the warm coppery taste of it in your mouth. He growls, metal arm reaching under you and pulling you up. He sits back on his calves and you straddle him, your hand dropping to guide his hard length into your sopping core.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he growls out, pulling back as you sink onto his throbbing cock. You don’t give yourself time to adjust before you’re rolling your hips, crying out when he starts meeting your hips thrust for thrust. You come when he bites down on the junction between your neck and shoulder hard enough to bruise, clawing at his back as you pulsate around him.

His hips stutter and then he’s pouring into you, shouting obscenities into your throat as he comes. His arms tight around you to a nearly bone-breaking degree, face still buried in your throat.

“I’ve got you,” you pant, one hand going to the back of his head to card through the hair there. You close your eyes, pressing your mouth to his temple. “I’ve got you, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

“How’s he doing?”

You glance up at Steve, following his gaze over the breakfast bar. You smile when you see that Bucky’s completely absorbed in the movie, his eyes not leaving the television. It’s been a week since he came home bloodied and bruised, and, looking at him, you’d never know it happened. His wounds were completely healed in three days. You, on the other hand, were still sporting a beautiful green bite mark on your neck.

“Better, I think,” you answer. Steve nods, eyes flicking to you one more time before he resumes tossing the salad. You work on portioning out spaghetti, giving the boys twice what you give yourself.

Steve’s been home for three days now. You’d called him after you and Bucky had ~~fucked~~ made love. He’d insisted on coming home immediately, but you convinced him to stay in DC for the rest of the conference. He’d only agreed once you promised to call him three times a day and, if he needed to, told him to come home.

You and Steve finish getting dinner ready before you take it to the couch. Bucky smiles at you, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you sit and hand him his plate. He takes a huge bite and groans in appreciation.

“God, this is good,” he says. You smile when you see he has sauce in the corner of his mouth, reaching up and wiping it away with your thumb. You lick it off, humming your approval.

“He’s right,” you agree, looking over at Steve. His smile is a proud one; he knows he makes one hell of a good pot of spaghetti sauce. The three of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the  _Ghostbusters_  marathon currently playing on some random channel. By the time the credits are rolling your empty plates are stacked in the middle of the coffee table and you’re tucked comfortably between the boys.

You can tell Steve is asleep by the soft snoring puffing across the side of your neck, so you turn instead to Bucky. He’s watching you closely, an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” you ask softly, your hand going up to cup his chin. He wraps his own around it, tilting his face down to press a kiss to your palm before holding your hand to his cheek.

“Nothin’,” he says, then shakes his head. “I just – I never thought I would have this, y’know?” He tilts his head towards you and Steve to make his point. You smile softly.

“You guys, you’re my… peace. My – my  _solace_ ,” he says, his voice desperate. You smile wider, leaning towards him enough to press a kiss to his mouth.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him again.

“I love you, too, doll,” he replies.

You turn back to watch the next movie, tucking your head into Bucky’s neck, reveling in the feeling of being with your boys. Being loved. Being needed.


End file.
